That's nothing compared to the length of the journey that took him to his first training camp in 1980, as a rookie quarterback with the Seahawks. It was the first time Krieg had been on an airplane.

"Just getting off the ground was a pretty good thing," Krieg recalled recently.

That first flight of fancy proved to be a launching pad for his improbable career, one that was productive enough during Krieg's 12-year stint with the Seahawks that Sunday he will become the eighth person to be induced into the club's Ring of Honor, joining Steve Largent, Jim Zorn, Dave Brown, the late Pete Gross, Curt Warner, Jacob Green and Kenny Easley.

Who'da thunk it? While Largent, Zorn, Brown, Warner, Green and Easley were gifted athletes, Krieg was the guy his teammates called "Mudbone."

This is not to say Krieg doesn't deserve the honor that will come his way at halftime of the Seahawks' home opener against the San Francisco 49ers. If any player has epitomized the grittiness of this franchise, it is the odds-flogging Krieg -- the only Seahawks quarterback to win a playoff game.

"I don't know if I overachieved or what," he once said. "I know I didn't underachieve."

Sunday will be a time to remember, and relish, all the plucky little passer was able to accomplish. Just the thought of Krieg reaching franchise immortality has had me shifting through mental snapshots of his career. These are five of my favorites:

Kid QB: Krieg never really belonged here. His signing, as a rookie free agent from an NAIA school in Wisconsin, was a favor to his college coach by Dick Mansperger, Seahawks director of player personnel.

That good will, however, extended only so far. Krieg wasn't in the picture until backup quarterback Steve Myer got a career-ending neck injury while being sacked during a training camp scrimmage in 1980. Suddenly, Krieg was No. 3, behind Zorn and backup Sam Adkins.

One of my earliest lasting memories of Krieg was the sight of him standing just outside the door of the bar at the team hotel on the Saturday night before a game in Houston in 1982. The players obviously weren't allowed in the watering hole, and a nobody quarterback from nowhere wasn't about to test the wrath of coach Jack Patera by sneaking a cocktail.

So what was that brownish liquid in Krieg's glass as he was holding court with some college buddies who were in the bar? The juice from that little pinch between his cheek and his gum.

The Man From Milton: Midway through the 1983 season, the Seahawks' first under Chuck Knox, Zorn was struggling. At halftime of a Week 8 game against the Pittsburgh Steelers at the Kingdome, Knox -- gasp -- turned things over to Krieg. The Seahawks lost, but Krieg showed enough spunk that Knox stayed with him for the next game -- against the Raiders in Los Angeles.

Krieg led a 34-21 victory, igniting the legend of this giant-killer quarterback who played at a college that no longer existed -- Milton. The story had been well documented in Seattle, but got a push toward national-fable status after Melvin Durslag retold Krieg's saga the next morning in the Los Angeles Herald Examiner.

The interview that fueled the story took place without Krieg knowing whom he was talking to. When I mentioned that it had to be pretty cool to do a one-on-one with Durslag, Krieg's eyes widened and he blurted, "That was Melvin Durslag? Damn. Why didn't you guys tell me that was Melvin Durslag? I've been reading him in The Sporting News since I was a kid."

Mudbone: The Seahawks made it to the AFC Championship game after the '83 season, and a rematch with the Raiders in L.A. They lost, but it set the table for heightened expectations in 1984 -- which lasted until the first half of the season opener, when Warner blew out a knee.

No worries. Ground Chuck became Air Knox, with Krieg doing his best Dan Marino impersonation while passing for 3,671 yards and 32 touchdowns as the Warner-less Seahawks went 12-4.

That's when Krieg's nickname became his name.

"He's like an old bone that you find in the mud," said guard Bryan Millard, the best offensive lineman in franchise history until Walter Jones and Steve Hutchinson came along. "That's Dave, he's our mudbone."

The enigma: You win 12 games without Warner, how many can you win with the return of the franchise running back? For the Seahawks in 1985, it was eight.

The undulating season, which alternated between winning two and losing two, was matched by Krieg's uneven efforts. In the eight wins, his quarterback rating was 116.4, with 22 touchdowns and two interceptions; in the eight losses it was 40.4, with five touchdowns and 18 interceptions.

This was pointed out one morning in a chart I compiled, a graphic with the headline, "The Making of an Enigma" that was hanging in Krieg's locker that afternoon.

"Dave had some immediate success, but then he really had to learn what it was to play," Zorn said this week. "That's when he became a really good QB."

The truth hurts: Toward the end of his stay in Seattle, Krieg got in the habit of running out just behind fullback John L. Williams during the pregame introductions.

I wondered why and tried to ask. But whenever he saw me coming his way in the locker room, Krieg would bolt for quarterback meetings that somehow the other QBs never had to attend. I finally caught him one day with his head down and the postpractice endorphins still racing.

"I hate it when they dog me like that," he said when asked about the boos that followed when his name was announced.

The next day, after the story had appeared in the P-I, the pitter-patter of not so little feet followed me up the stairs and a hand grabbed my shoulder.

"I can't believe you'd do this to me," Krieg said.

"Do what?" I asked.

"Put in the paper that I hate it when the fans dog me. I'd never say that," Krieg said.

I opened my tape recorder and flipped over the tape, which just happened to be cued to the start of that interview. There was a panting-and-puffing Krieg saying just what was quoted in the story.

Never mind, said the look on his face as he turned and headed back to the locker room.